Dear Oswald,
Hello there, old friend!
I know we've never truly met - at least, not in the way most friendships begin. You've never popped out of a mailbox with a note bearing my name, nor have we ever strolled together down Big City's sunny sidewalks. But in some strange and wonderful way, I feel like I've known you all my life. I grew up watching you water the petunias, care for Weenie, and say "hello" with your usual sunshine smile to everyone from Henry to Madame Butterfly. So when I had the chance to write a letter to a fictional character, my heart chose you instantly - because you were never just fiction to me.
You see, you weren't just a purple octopus with a bowler hat and a sunflower friend. You were a presence - calm, kind, and consistent - in a world that often felt far too fast, too loud, or too uncertain. In Big City, everything seemed gentle and warm. There were no rushes or rudeness, no unkind laughter or cruelty - just a rhythm of simplicity that I craved more than I ever realized back then. Even now, as I type these words years later, your world still lives in a soft little corner of my heart, untouched by time.
I remember the day you baked blueberry muffins for the whole neighborhood - even though you only intended to make a few. You didn't groan or panic when the batter ballooned into dozens more; you embraced it with a chuckle, sharing the joy (and the muffins) with everyone. That small moment, like so many others, taught me something quietly profound: that sometimes life gives you more than you planned, and instead of frustration, you can choose gratitude. I carry that lesson with me every day.
Isn't it strange, how you managed to teach so much by doing so little?
As a child, I didn't understand why I felt calmer after watching you go about your day. I didn't have the vocabulary for it. But now, I know - it was the way you treated the world around you. You greeted each new challenge not as a problem, but as a puzzle to gently solve. You showed kindness not because someone earned it, but because it was the right thing to do. And most importantly, you listened. Really listened - to your friends, to Weenie, to what the day had to say.
And so now, Oswald, I find myself doing the same. I try to listen more - to people, to the world, even to myself. It's not always easy. The world I live in moves much faster than Big City. It's filled with deadlines, noise, and more screens than trees. But when it becomes too much, I often find myself closing my eyes and imagining your cheerful voice saying, "Let's take it slow." Those words have become a kind of mantra, a life raft in the middle of a busy sea.
Do you remember Daisy, the flower who stood by your side? She always brought laughter and energy to your adventures. Sometimes, I see a bit of her in my closest friends - the ones who brighten the room and lift my mood without even trying. And Henry, your cautious, detail-loving penguin pal - he reminds me of my brother, who checks every weather report before leaving the house, even if it's just to the grocery store. There's a bit of each of your friends in the people I love, and maybe that's why I carry Big City with me - because it was never just a show; it was a reflection of the world I hoped to live in someday.
Speaking of friends, I wanted to thank you for reminding me how friendships don't need to be loud or extravagant. They can be quiet - like Weenie, following at your side - or thoughtful, like Madame Butterfly's advice. Your friendships were rooted in trust, small gestures, and consistent care. You never needed a grand adventure to feel close to your friends - just a shared moment and a kind word.
That meant everything to a child like me, who often felt too shy, too quiet, or too strange to fit in. I wasn't always good at playing group games or making the first move. But you made me believe that gentle souls had a place in the world too - that kindness wasn't weakness, and that even the quietest voice could say the most important things.
As I've grown older, I've realized something funny - the world often tries to rush us. It tells us to be louder, faster, busier, better. It praises hustle and glorifies noise. But every now and then, when I feel like I'm slipping into that whirlwind, I remember the day you missed the bus but still made it to the picnic, smiling and unbothered. Or the time you helped a lost egg roll find its way back home, never once losing your patience.
Those stories might seem small to others, but to me, they were revolutionary. They taught me that patience is power, that compassion is courage, and that slowing down isn't failure - it's grace.
And speaking of grace, Oswald, do you remember the time you played music with your friends in the park? I watched that scene so many times. You weren't the best musician - and neither was Henry, nor Daisy, nor the others - but it didn't matter. You played with joy. You made music because it felt good, not because it had to be perfect. That scene gave me the confidence to try piano - not to impress anyone, but simply to feel what you must've felt: that quiet magic of creation.
I still play sometimes, usually at night, when the world slows down and the only sound is the soft clink of keys beneath my fingers. When I do, I often imagine you and your friends bobbing gently to the rhythm - maybe Weenie even letting out a musical bark. And just like that, I feel less alone.
You know, I think that's what you've always given me: a sense of gentle togetherness. Even though you're a cartoon octopus living in a pastel neighborhood, your presence always felt real. You reminded me that goodness still exists - in laughter, in daily rituals, in forgiving accidents, in muffins shared, and in walks under blue skies.
In a way, you were my first therapist. My first philosopher. My first quiet friend. And for that, I owe you more than words could ever say.
I wish I could visit Big City just once - to see the street you live on, to wave to the Egg Twins as they tumble by, to help you find the perfect hat for a rainy day. But maybe I already have visited - each time I remembered you, or lived by something you taught me, I was there, wasn't I?
Now, I'm not a child anymore. I write emails instead of letters, I walk on noisy streets instead of whimsical ones, and the world often forgets to be gentle. But I haven't forgotten. I carry you with me in small ways - in my patience, in my care for others, in my effort to choose kindness even when it's hard.
And now, dear Oswald, I'd like to ask you something.
Would you write back?
I know that sounds silly - asking a fictional character for a reply. But maybe in another universe, you're sitting under a parasol, sipping lemonade, pen in one tentacle and a flower in the other, scribbling away in response to the kids (and grown-ups) who loved you.
If you did write back, I imagine you'd tell me something like this:
"Dear Friend,
Thank you for your beautiful letter. I'm so glad you remember our little world with such warmth. Things in Big City are still as lovely as ever - Daisy still dances in the park, Henry still reads the forecast, and Weenie still loves his bubble baths. Life moves slowly here, and that's the way we like it. Keep being kind, keep listening, and don't forget - sometimes, the smallest steps make the biggest difference. Yours cheerfully, Oswald."
And even if I never receive such a letter, just imagining it brings me peace.
So thank you, Oswald. For being the kind of character the world needs more of. For teaching lessons that linger. For offering companionship without asking for anything in return.
If this letter reaches you in some magical way - through the waves, or a breeze, or the quiet of a storybook - I hope you feel how deeply you are appreciated.
From one gentle soul to another: take care. Give Weenie a hug from me. And never stop being you.
With affection, nostalgia, and endless thanks,
Your friend, always,
Someone who never forgot Big City
Mayuri Kulkarni.
